


High Society

by follyofyouth



Category: XCOM (Video Games) & Related Fandoms
Genre: Everyone loves an excuse to play dress up, F/M, Fluff, Pre-Relationship, Pre-XCOM, Seriously this is teeth rotting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-25
Updated: 2017-09-27
Packaged: 2019-01-05 10:56:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12188649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/follyofyouth/pseuds/follyofyouth
Summary: Lt. Commader John Bradford and Dr. Elizabeth Regan are called upon to represent the XCOM project. Too bad she’s jet lagged, and he’s more than a little distracted.





	1. One

Her phone keeps buzzing.

Her phone keeps buzzing, but she doesn’t have the energy to investigate why.

Her phone keeps buzzing, but she doesn’t have the energy to investigate why, and in truth, she really doesn’t care.

She stares at the offending object, vibrating against John’s coffee table, and briefly considers shoving it under a bed. _That’ll teach you_.

But that would require getting up, and right now, that feels like the gravest of all impositions.

–

John Bradford stares down at his phone, brow furrowed.

He knows for a fact that Elizabeth isn’t lecturing somewhere. He knows this, because he’d picked her up at the airport last night, woken her up for breakfast this morning, and made sure she’d eaten before he left for work. On a good day, Lizzie isn’t to be trusted in a kitchen, and this is by no means a good day.

Briefly, he considers texting his neighbor: _Quick question_ – _is my house still standing or no?_

Two emails, six texts, and two phone calls. He sighs. _Guess I’m taking lunch early._

– 

She is vaguely aware of someone standing over her. She realizes this should be a source of some concern — didn’t John lock the door when he left? — but can’t quite bring herself to move from her position curled on the couch. She hopes if it’s an intruder, he’ll take what he needs, leave the wine, and leave her be.

“So, this is why you haven’t answered your phone.”

Definitely not an intruder. Definitely John.

“It won’t shut up,” she groans. “Why won’t it shut up?”

“It won’t shut up because I’ve been trying to get a hold of you all morning.”

“Kitchen too much work. Just couch.”

“I appreciate your dedication to not burning my house down, but you have to get up.”

She rolls over just enough to give him her best attempt at a dirty look, the effect somewhat diluted by the tangle of hair covering her face. He brushes the strands back without a moment’s hesitation. “Absolutely terrifying, Lizzie.”

She leans into his touch. “I manage to sleep the whole day?”

He shakes his head. “It’s only about eleven.”

“You have the thing tonight still?”

He draws a deep breath. _Like ripping a bandaid off,_ he tells himself. “ _We_ have the thing tonight.”

“We? Oh, no,” she says, pushing herself up. “Nope. Uh-uh.”

He nods. “Curran’s in the hospital. You’re up, per his orders.”

“What does he expect me to do? _Sleep_ on people?”

“I would go with represent the XCOM project before I went with sleep.”

“Isn’t that your job?”

“If it were just _my_ job, we wouldn’t have spent the last eighteen months on the road together.”

“Okay, fair. But, I’m nowhere near ready to handle any sort of formal event. I don’t have make up here, or a hair appointment, or a dress, or …” She trails off, hugging a throw pillow to her chest.

“Which is why you have to get up.”

“Why would you do this to me? I am _so_ jet-lagged.”

“It’s black-tie, so you can’t go in pajamas. And I didn’t have any say in it, so stop looking so betrayed.”

She looks up at him with her best attempt at puppy dog eyes. “Tell him I’m dead.”

He chuckles and settles next to her, wrapping an arm around her waist. “If you’re dead, then I have some serious things to reconsider about myself.”

“I’d like to think you’ve got pretty good taste in dead girls,” she says, snuggling against him.

He shakes his head. “I’d like to think I have good taste in living ones, too.”

“Not sure you’ve got much proof for that conjecture right now.”

“It’ll be better once you’re up.”

“Time to call in my fairy godmother.”

“What, are you Cinderella now?”

“No, I’m the child of diplomats. That comes with its own set of perks.”

–

He’s on a call when his phone buzzes.   _Nothing fixes this_ , the text reads.

He sends her a question mark.

 _So cold. So tired. Have dress, have appt. Back to bed for now_.

 _That was quick_ , he responds.

 _Literal godmother. She’s great. Probably murdered her husband, but we all have our faults_.

He reads the text twice to make sure he hasn’t made it up. _Can’t tell if you’re kidding or not_.

_Text has no prosody. Interpret as you will._

He rolls his eyes. _Don’t oversleep._

_No guarantees._

–

Elizabeth Regan knows she does not fit in here. Here, the women are well dressed, and well made up. They do not look roused from the depth of sleep by a shrieking iPhone and a call from a doting godmother.  John’s sweatshirt stares at her from its place, folded up at the top of her bag, tempting her to slip it back on, or bury her face in it, and go back to bed.

She can’t imagine its owner would be pleased.

_Neither would the aesthetician, come to think of it._

She has to admit: she looks good. Her godmother has never led her wrong in almost thirty-two years of life; it’s not like she really expected her to start now. Still, the conversion from sleep-deprived, jet-lagged hobgoblin to presentable, well-appointed project representative would be a tall order for anyone.

She drums newly manicured nails against her phone screen.  Her last text stares back up at her, unanswered.

 _You’ll see him later_ , she tells herself. _He has work to do_.

–

He scrolls through his texts on the way home.  His mother’s sent him pictures of the St. Augustine shoreline, the Colonel’s sent him a small novel’s worth of briefing notes, and Lizzie has sent him her own idea of a masterpiece, a screenshot of the evening’s weather forecast, covered in lime green profanity. He chuckles, and texts her back: _That’s XCOM, Lizzie._

–

She clambers into the back of the cab, feeling absurdly overdressed. Her phone buzzes and she looks down, embarrassingly happy for a response.

She snorts and rolls her eyes. _Isn’t that what I used to tell you when I missed targets?_

–

He realizes Lizzie is home about thirty seconds after stepping out of the shower. He can make out the sounds of padding up the stairs, something bulky in her arms, still wrapped in a winter coat, swearing under her breath.

He chuckles to himself as he grabs his razor. _At least she’s awake_.

–

She is really beginning to question her career choices. Yes, moving from teaching to consulting had been an exciting decision, one that ultimately freed her from the politics of academia, but at least the politics of academia never demanded she wear heels and a dress in fifteen degree weather.

She screws on the earring back, and checks her make up in the mirror. Her lipstick is already fading, but that’s well within her power to correct. There’ll be nothing for her to do when she shows up as a popsicle tonight, though.

–

He’s almost dressed when the knock comes at his door.

“In!” He calls.

“Look,” she says from somewhere behind him. “I hate to offend your good Boy Scout morals, but I need help with a zipper.

“I think my good — Wow.”

She shrugs. “I was only sort of exaggerating on the fairy godmother bit.” She reaches a hand up, rubbing the back of her neck.

“If that’s what you can do on minimal sleep and short notice, I can’t imagine what a well-planned take would look like.”

She blushes. “More like ‘what my godmother did,’ but thanks.” She turns. “Can you do me a favor and zip me up? I don’t have the energy to play contortionist today.”

“Did you eat anything after breakfast?”

“Are you counting the carton of orange juice I downed?”

“No.”

“Then, no.”

He sighs and shakes his head but the gesture is lost. He fights the urge to ghost finger tips over bare skin, reminding himself that he is a professional, she is his colleague, and he really _really_ doesn’t need distractions, let alone self-made distractions, on a night like this.

But then again, they’d crossed the just colleagues line not long after they’d met, and had been dancing around just friends for months. In truth, they haven't been just anything for some time now, and they’re both all too aware of it.

He brings the zipper up and closes the hook and eye.

“I take back my comment from this morning. Cinderella was an understatement.”

She turns and smiles at him. “Let’s just hope I come home with both shoes.”

“Suspect we’ll have a problem if you don’t.”

“Never know. Someone might want an interesting night.”

He slips his jacket over his shoulders, and offers her an arm. “Ready?”

“Ready.”


	2. Two

“Actually,” she says, “It’s _Doctor_ Regan. And you’d do well to remember that, Mr. Robishaw.” 

And that’s his cue. He knows a incident about to happen when he hears one, and whoever this Mr. Robishaw is, he’s about to be the inciting factor.

“Regan,” he says, sidling up to her, “Pardon the interruption, but Curran’s on the line.”

“Mr. Robishaw,” she says, though her smile is all daggers. “You’ll excuse me.”

He leads her away by her elbow, towards a vestibule in the back.

“What’s up?” She asks. “Last minute instructions? He’s a little late, y’know.”

“It wasn’t Curran.”

“Huh?”

“You are the Marty McFly of diplomacy. I was worried you were gonna try putting your heel through his foot.”

“Oh, please. We both know, if I’m anyone, I’m the Willie Scott to your Indiana Jones.”

He bites back a chuckle, still weaving her through the crowd. “You’re more Marion.”

“I don’t like the outdoors.”

“But you absolutely _would_ threaten somebody with a butter knife.”

“At least we can agree I’m not Elsa.”

“Definitely not.”

Crowded into the vestibule, he can see the dark circles under her eyes, and he brushes a stray strand of hair back behind her ear. “What did he even do to get you going? I can’t remember the last time you pulled the ‘doctor’ card.”

“He tried lecturing me about the moral imperative of firebombing Dresden! _Dresden_. You know, the _largely civilian_ city. That we _incinerated_. In the _middle_ of the _night_.”

He winces. “How did that topic even come up?”

“I gave a talk on it when I was working on my doctorate. I guess he was in the audience? Or, maybe read the conference proceedings? Who knows. But, apparently, I was _wrong_ and he saw fit to inform me of that fact.”

“Lucky you.”

She shakes her head. “I owe you on the save.”

“I’m just glad I got there before you went for the shoe.”

“Oh, come on. That was one time. And to be fair, that one got handsy. It was merited.”

“I’m not arguing that point with you, Lizzie, but the image of your shoe in a man’s foot is something that will haunt me the rest of my days.”

“It’s not like I’m gonna stab my shoe into _your_ foot. I like _you_.”

“That’s heartening, Regan. Thanks,” he says, chuckling. “Listen, do you wanna get out of here? Maybe go get something to eat?”

“Dear god, _yes_. Have we schmoozed enough? Are we off the hook? I’m about out of patience for people time.”

“It’s going to ten. I’m pretty sure we’ve kissed enough rings.”

Her shoulders slump. “I don’t think I can kiss many more.”

“Buck up, Doctor. We’re back to it next week.”

“Shh,” she says, pressing a finger to his lips. “Let me pretend.”

They shrug into coats and gloves, anything to ward off the February chill. He watches her pry off her heels, steadying her as she shoves her feet into more practical footwear. She jams the shoebag into her purse, newly freed from coat check, along with her clutch. She threads her arm through his, and they are out, off into the cold Washington night.

Flurries begin to drift slowly downwards as they slide into the waiting car.

“Barnside?”

“Barnside,” she nods.  
  
The car drops them at the house, and they stay long enough for her to exchange her hosiery for a pair of flannel pajama bottoms, before piling back into his car and making the trek for Arlington. 

He couldn’t say when the Barnside Diner had become the tradition rather than the exception. He chalks it up to flights arriving and departing at strange times, and the inescapable draw of comfort food --- not to mention the ease of access for a burger and fries at whatever odd hour found them at the diner’s door.

They settle at the counter, and place their orders.

“So, that text about your godmother …”

“I wasn’t kidding,” she says, adjusting the skirt of her dress. “We’re fairly certain she did him in. That being said,” she looks up. “He was an abusive prick and so we all sort of looked the other way.”

“And the police weren’t involved?”

“Official cause of death was hepatic venocclusive disease. Basically, too many of the small blood vessels in his liver were blocked off.” She shrugs. “They wrote it off as a weird hereditary abnormality.”

“Where does foul play come in?”

The waitress gives them a worried look as she brings their drinks.

“My godmother keeps a pretty impressive garden --- and she’s knowledgeable about what she has. She grows a fair bit of Comfrey as a fertilizer. Comfrey, put directly into a tea, can _cause_ hepatic venocclusive disease. At a small enough dose over a long enough period of time …” She trails off, taking a sip of her seltzer.

“It looks like natural causes,” he finishes.

She nods.

“Fairy godmother of murder.”

“And fabulous vintage fashion. She almost makes me wish I went into lobbying.”

“Well, when you get bored with us at XCOM, you’ve at least got experience now.”

“You’re not getting rid of me that easily. And anyway,” she pauses, taking another sip. “I don’t think ‘stabbing a man’s foot with a shoe’ is really a good bit of work history.”

“You’d pick up the temperament if you had to.”

“Yeah, but I’d miss you. Who would come rescue me from unpleasant human beings?”

“Unpleasant? That’s tame for you.”

“I have a healthy fear of being booted out of here.”

He looks around. “By whom?”

She shrugs. “I take no chances.”

“Have you _ever_ been kicked out of a restaurant?”

“No, but I had friends kicked out of the local dive bar in grad school. That was an experience.”

“I … can’t picture you in a dive bar.”

“They were having a heated discussion about the merits of the Prime Directive.”

“In a dive bar?”

“The one arguing in favor of it dumped her beer over the other one’s head.”

He chuckles. “And suddenly, it makes sense.”

She nods. “I was the only one allowed to walk out of the bar of her own willpower. The other two got carried.”

“I’m guessing that friendship didn’t recover.”

“They got married last year. Apparently dousing your crush in cheap alcohol is the new way to say ‘I love you.’”

“I’ll be sure to remember that,” he says, elbowing her gently.

“Don’t you dare,” she laughs.

\--

The stairs feel like an imposition, put upon this earth, put in this house for the sole purpose of being yet another obstacle she most overcome in her pursuit of a hot shower and her pajamas.

She casts a loving glance at the couch.

The couch: her one true friend, the one piece of furniture that has never betrayed her, never impinged upon her, only welcomed her with acceptance and throw pillows.

It’s _almost_ a bed.

It’s _close enough_ to a bed.

It’ll do.

She flops down, freeing her hair from its updo, letting it tumble down her shoulders, and depositing the pins into her purse. She has slept in dresses and make up before, has slept on John’s couch before. There is nothing novel about combining these two scenarios.

\--

By the time he’s shrugged off most of the Dinner Dress, she still hasn’t made it upstairs. He sighs, and grabs the quilt from the foot of his bed, loosening his bowtie as he makes his way back to the living room.

She’s there, in almost the same spot he’d found her that morning, in almost the same position. Her hair is thrown over her face again, and she’s gone back to cuddling the throw pillows. Pajama pants poke out from beneath the silk dress and bare feet curl around each other.

“Hey,” he says, gently shaking her shoulder. “Up.”

“No more parties,” she groans. “Too many parties.”

“No more parties,” he offers. “But, you’re hogging the couch.”

She pushes herself up to a seated position.  “You staying here?”

“I live here, Lizzie.”

“Ha ha,” she intones.

“I know if I let you stay down here by yourself, I’m gonna come downstairs tomorrow to you being tired _and_ cold. If I stay with you, I fix one of those problems,” he says, lowering himself onto the couch next to her.

“That’s a compelling argument,” she nods, settling against him.

“Thanks,” he says, stretching out. “I’ve been working on it for the last _eighteen months_.”

She follows suit, then turns to bury her face against his chest. “Should be proud. Seems damn near flawless.”

He tosses the quilt over them, making sure they’re well and fully covered. He drapes one arm over her side, his hand coming to rest against the small of her back, and he folds the other under a throw pillow. Mentally, he makes a note to thank his mother for said pillows; they never would have been on his radar, and they’ve proven useful more times than he ever could have anticipated. Lizzie folds one arm under her, and wraps the other up and around his shoulder.  

“Comfy?” He asks.

“Mmmm,” she nods, nuzzling against him.

He slowly brushes a thumb back and forth against the fabric of her dress, watching the rise and fall of her chest grow steady and even against the dark of the night.   _One of these days,_ he tells himself, closing his eyes. _One of these days, we’ll figure out how to talk about this_.

He presses a kiss to her forehead. _I promise._


End file.
